


Cornered

by firstlightofeos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, F/F, Femslash, First Meetings, Fortune Telling, Pirates, Precognition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstlightofeos/pseuds/firstlightofeos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last place Raven had expected to find her destiny was a crowded tavern. </p><p>[Set in the same 'verse as <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/646902">No Quarter</a>.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cornered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unforgotten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforgotten/gifts), [PragmaticHominid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/gifts).



> So I tried to get this written for Femmeslash February, but...failed. Oh, well. This is the first part of a *indistinct mumbling*-part series about Mystique and Destiny and their epic bamfness as they take over ~~the world~~ the high seas. 
> 
> As stated in the summary, this is set in the same 'verse as [No Quarter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/646902). Charles is the Dread Pirate Roberts; Raven is his first mate. Raven and Irene's story lies tangential to Charles and Erik's stories, though, so they'll be in separate series to make the arcs clear.
> 
> This fic was _also_ originally meant to be a present for **[unforgotten](http://archiveofourown.org/users/unforgotten)** and **[PragmaticHominid](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PragmaticHominid/pseuds/PragmaticHominid)** , on the occasion of their anniversary, which was...a few weeks ago, but better late than never, right? So. Hope you girls like it, and <3 <3 <3
> 
> And, of course: thanks to [professor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/professor) and **unforgotten** for their help with plotting, as well as their general enthusiasm and pom-pom waving. Summary credit also goes to unf.  <3

Raven tilts her head back and finishes the last of her ale, thumping her tankard loudly on the table and wiping the foam from her mouth with the back of her hand. A loud roar goes up from the crowd around her table, most of them members of the crew of The Revenge, though there are some other assorted pirates and ne'er-do-wells mixed in with them. Raven grins widely and gives a challenging look to the man sitting across the table from her. 

"Ready to give up?" she asks, tapping her six empty tankards meaningfully as she eyes his five.

In answer, he pounds the table and yells for the bar wenches to bring them three more. He takes two for himself and hands the other across the table to Raven, who raises it in a toast and watches him glug down the first of his two ales. When he finishes, he drops the tankard loudly to the table with a triumphant shout, spreading his beefy arms wide and tossing back his long blond hair, ignoring the foam dripping from his face. Raven amuses herself for a moment by imagining the look of disgust Charles would turn on the man if he were here; no one, not even Emma, can match the utter disdain and condescension that Charles practically exudes when they make port in these pirate towns. 

Then the man grasps his remaining tankard, and indicates with a nod of his head that Raven should do the same. She laughs to herself as she grasps it firmly in both hands; he’s fairly good at pretending to be unaffected, but she notices his faint sway, the way his fingers slip a little as he tries to get a grip on the cup. She’s not immune to the effects of the alcohol herself, but her natural biology works in her favor. If she were in her blue form, she’d barely be able to feel anything, but as it is, her extremities are definitely starting to feel a bit tingly, and she knows that if she tries to walk for the door, it’s extremely unlikely she’ll keep to walking in a perfectly straight line, though she’d be pretty damn close. 

It doesn’t matter. She’s still going to win the drinking contest; she always does. Men underestimate her because she’s blonde and leggy and pretty, never taking notice of the ease with which she wears the sword strapped to her hip, or the automatic way her crew defers to her. 

Just as she’s about to raise the flagon to her mouth, the crowd surrounding their table parts a little, revealing a woman sitting in the corner of the tavern. She’s staring directly at Raven—or, at least, Raven _thinks_ she’s staring at her; it’s hard to tell, given the small, round dark glasses the woman’s wearing. Raven can’t help looking back; something about the woman draws her in. It’s as if everything else in the tavern fades into the background, the woman standing out, bright and brilliant and yet mysterious. Raven doesn’t understand _why_ she’s so drawn to her; Charles would probably have something to say about it, because Charles _always_ has something to say about everything, but...that’s beside the point. 

Then Armando jostles her elbow, reminding her of where she is, and what’s she’s doing. She hefts the flagon in one hand, careful to avoid the sloshing foam, and, on the count of three, starts to drink it down as fast as she can—the lightning round. Whoever finishes first will automatically be declared the winner; and Raven’s never lost. 

She doesn’t lose this time, either, pounding her empty cup onto the table mere seconds before her opponent does. The crew erupts in cheers around her, pounding her back, collecting their winnings from the other men standing around who, not knowing any better, had been convinced to bet against her. 

The Revenge will have made a pretty penny tonight, and tomorrow, there will likely be several seamen (and women, whom Raven prefers) lined up at the docks, hoping they can convince The Dread Pirate Roberts and his right-hand woman to give them a chance. If nothing else, it’s a good recruiting method. 

As Hank hoists Raven into the air, she finds herself looking back over in the corner, where the woman is still sitting, still looking directly at Raven. From this angle, Raven can see the cards laid out in front of the woman, see the scarves and jewelry that reveal her to be a gypsy, a fortune-teller. It could just be that the woman’s unnerving attention could be a way of trying to gain herself a new customer; but something tells Raven that’s not the case. 

It doesn’t really matter either way; she wants to speak to the woman, _needs_ to, is surprised by the depth of her curiosity and desire—she’s never felt a pull like this, and while she’s not superstitious, she’s not about to resist it.

She taps Hank’s shoulder. He looks up at her. 

“Let me down,” she says. He blinks, clearly not having heard her amidst the ruckus. She leans down and repeats her demand in his ear. Gentleman that he is, he complies immediately. Raven flashes him her brightest grin and delights in flush that suffuses his entire face. 

“What’s up?” he asks as she starts to walk away, giving her a curious look. She can’t blame him for being confused; she always loves being in the center of the party, continuing to drink and leading the crew in all the dirty songs they know (and making up a fair number of new ones), so it’s odd for her to duck away just at her moment of triumph. 

She smiles and tilts her head. “Nothing too important,” she says, feeling the lie in her words. Whatever this is, it’s... _vital_. “I just got the sudden urge to have my future told.” 

She nods over at the woman in the corner. Hank follows her gaze, then shrugs and turns back to the celebrating crew, accepting the tankards shoved into his hand by Alex and Armando, instantly forgetting all about Raven’s strange behavior. 

Raven laughs and strides over to the corner, where the woman is just finishing shuffling her cards. 

“Mystique,” the woman says, not looking up as she deals out the cards, three rows of three. “I’ve been waiting for you. Take a seat.” 

Raven looks around, but there’s no one else near the two of them. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Not at all.” The woman looks up at Raven, dark glasses slipping down her nose a tiny bit, and then Raven realizes: she’s blind. “Raven Darkholme.” 

“How do you know my name?” Raven demands, hand automatically going to the hilt of her sword. 

“Take a seat,” the woman says again, indicating the chair opposite her. 

“Tell me how you know my name.”

“I am a fortune-teller,” the woman says, her lips quirking. “I am in the business of knowing things I’m not supposed to know.”

“That would make you a spy.”

“No spy.” The woman shakes her head. Her hands rest on the table, perfectly still, palms flat against the surface. “Take a seat, Raven, sometimes called Mystique, and let me tell your fortune.”

“I don’t really—”

“Sit.” 

It’s not a request, and something in the hard, demanding edges of the fortune-teller’s voice has Raven sitting down before she even realizes she’s doing it. She shudders, reinforcing her shields; the woman isn’t a telepath, is she? She’d have noticed; _Charles_ would have noticed, the instant they’d docked. 

“You have questions,” the woman says. 

“Yes.” 

“Ask them.” 

“Who are you, really?” 

She smiles, a slow, seductive thing that sends shivers along Raven’s spine, want curling low in her belly. 

“They call me Destiny,” she says. “I am a mutant, like you; but my gift requires a bit more...faith.” 

“Faith?” Raven repeats, feeling stupid. 

Destiny—and that can’t be her real name, but it’s what Raven’s got to go on—smiles again, tilting her head. “I have the ability to see the future, to know what will happen and what will not, as well as all possibilities in between.” She holds out her hand, palm-up. “Come, Raven. Give me your hand, and let me tell you your future.”

“I’m not paying you.”

“I didn’t ask.” Destiny flicks her fingers. “Your hand.” 

Raven gives it to her; after all, what does she have to lose?

Destiny cups Raven’s hand in hers, the other hand coming up to trace along the lines of Raven’s palm. Raven gasps at the contact; there’s something strange about this, something different, something— _special_. She’s aware of every point where they’re touching, every movement Destiny makes, every one of their breaths, a steady rhythm of in out in out in out as their chests rise and fall in synchrony. 

Then Destiny tuts. “Your _real_ hand, dear.” When Raven pauses, biting her lip and looking around surreptitiously, she adds, “Don’t worry; no one will see.”

Raven closes her eyes, focusing on changing her hand and only her hand, letting the energy she’s unconsciously been channelling into it fade. She feels the tell-tale ripple as her disguise fades away, and when she opens her eyes, she sees her hand, blue and scaly—but, as she’d intended, only her hand. 

“Yes,” Destiny breathes. “That’s...exactly it.” Then she strokes a particular spot on the back of Raven’s hand, and Raven gasps as the gesture floods her with arousal. She’s not inexperienced, nor is she unfamiliar with her body, but she hadn’t known...

“Raven,” Destiny says quietly, tracing her index finger along Raven’s palm. 

“Yes,” Raven says, just as quiet. 

“You are meant for great things.” 

Raven rolls her eyes. “Really? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Great things’? You couldn’t even _pretend_ to make them up?”

Destiny laughs. “I’m not in the business of falsehoods.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

“Raven,” Destiny says again, and her voice is deadly serious. “You are destined for greatness, but you must not let yourself be distracted or discouraged. There are those who will not see the sparks in you; and there are those who will, but who will seek to use you for their own gain. Trust those closest to you; but make your own decisions, and do not let others tell you what to do.” 

Raven sighs. “Yes, all right, I get it, trust only myself and don’t let anyone interfere with my great and glorious purpose, which you _still haven’t told me_ , by the way. Anything actually _useful_?”

“Of course,” Destiny says, the corners of her mouth tilting upward. “I’ve been waiting for you a long time; I’d be remiss if I didn’t have anything you could use.” She leans back and lets Raven’s hand drop. Raven swallows, and resists the urge to reach out and take Destiny’s hand again, already missing the contact. Destiny, seemingly unaware of Raven’s conflict—and maybe she is; she is blind, after all, and while every one of her movements has been confident and precise, it could be that she only sees what she needs to see, and nothing more—tilts her head, as if she’s listening to someone.  
Then she straightens up, and says, “In two weeks, you’ll capture a navy ship. There will be a sailor—he’ll beg for his life, and Charles should grant it to him. See that he does.” She smiles, and then adds, “And Azazel is too reliant on his tail for balance when fighting; you can exploit that, next time you train.” 

Raven hums to herself, already thinking of how she can use this to her advantage. “Anything else?”

“One thing,” Destiny says. She leans forward, beckoning for Raven to come closer. Raven does, moving in until—

Destiny brushes her lips against Raven’s, gently, just barely touching. Raven’s mouth parts, and she surges forward to kiss her further, to deepen the kiss, _something_ , but then Destiny’s backing away, and Raven has to sit back or risk overturning the table. 

“You’ll be back here in two months,” Destiny says. “Come find me. I’ll be waiting.” Then she stands, slips something into Raven’s hands, and swiftly, deftly, makes her way through the tavern, neatly sidestepping the men who reach for her, and within two minutes, she’s gone. 

Raven looks down at the object in her hands. It’s a tarot card: an angel, wings and arms outstretched, floats above a naked man and woman, standing at either end of the card, the woman looking up at the angel and the man looking at the woman. 

At the bottom, written in curling calligraphy, is the card’s title: 

_The Lovers._

**Author's Note:**

> The description of The Lovers tarot card (which, okay, doesn't necessarily mean love in the way one might think, but that's irrelevant, Destiny's trying to give Raven a message here) comes from plugging it into a Google image search and picking the image that showed up the most. *grins*


End file.
